The games we play
by ohmygodwritersblock
Summary: A collection of really short snapshots of Sebastian Moran slash Jim Moriarty. These two completely fascinate me. I believe the pairing is Mormor. Odd name. There's some rather unconventional fluff and a whole load of angst and crazy Moriarty. No sex, but lots of talk of murder. "I kill because I need to, and you kill because I pay you." "Its fun anyway"
1. We kill for fun

**This was meant to be something completely different. Whoops. Next one will be up very, very soon. These two completely fascinate me. And I know how their story is going to end (even if I don't tell it properly, or in a way that is at all linear).**

* * *

Jim is stretched out on the couch, plush and modern.

His arm dangles loosely off the side of the rounded armrest, lazily over his head. His rests; propped up slightly by the dark pillow. The expensive fabric of his suit is rumpled, wrinkled at the folds of his arms where he stretches, arching his back in lethargy to sigh against the cushions.

Sebastian sits sprawled in Jim's black, high-backed swivel chair (he does love his dramatics) parallel to the slim, wide desk. Legs extended long and tired.

Jim's heave of breath is deep and deliberate, "Oh Seb. Why is everyone so boring." He twist his head to direct the statement more towards Sebastian's direction. "Huh? So very boring. I'm going to have to start killing people for fun now." His voice takes on a more daring turn on the last words, twisting and curling with his smirk.

Seb is gruff and the amusement trickles in among the harsh vowels, "I thought we were already doing that."

Jim chuckles with his words, relaxing back to direct his complaints at the arching ceiling, "Sebby, I kill people out of necessity and you kill because I pay you."

"Mmm." The noise of smooth agreement melds with the city traffic of twenty stories down and the steady dart of lights laid out below.

There is silence, and then Seb rasps again, "But it's fun anyway."

Their laughter fills up the silence.


	2. Hello

**I should be writing for ****_Knowing Sherlock Holmes _****but this is easier, and I had this scene in my head. **

**Lots of fun, but sometimes I worry that there is something wrong with me. Then I go read some other fics and I realize that I'm pretty normal. Perhaps not entirely sane, though.**

**This is their first meeting. How Sebastian started working for Moriarty.**

* * *

Moriarty.

He swaggers in among the bodies strewn across the warehouse like things that are limp and wet. He nudges the head of a portly middle aged man in passing, the eyes reflective and dull. It lolls to the side.

He smirks, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, ratty grey hoodie and trainers. Stubble mars the contours of his jaw, but he raises one smooth eyebrow.

"Hello, boys." The smile makes his eyes seem almost unnaturally bright. He wiggles his fingers at them, flirting among the slow drip of blood that flecks his shoes as he walks. "I was going to dress up for you, I do like the pretty ones." He eyes the second of the two men, standing slightly behind the other, shoulders broad, positioned like a shadow. The gun trained at the point between Moriarty's eyes. "But then I thought, hmmmmmm…" He sighs, huffs out a white breath that dissipates in the chill. "Can't be bothered, really." Mouth twists, face moulding in wide-eyed regret.

The man in front, facing him, does not look at all amused.

"I want the money." The accent is light, but distinctly European, and his eyebrows draw together, dark and threatening.

Moriarty's face rolls into a frown that droops on either side of his chin. "Disappointed. Can't say I'm surprised, though. You're so very predictable." He spits it like a curse, and it thuds against the echoing walls. "Don't you ever get bored, Sebastian?" If the man with the gun is surprised at the fact that Moriarty knows his name, he doesn't show it.

Moriarty is not put off by the way his words melt like ice against the smooth expression. He continues,"I, on the other hand, despise being predictable." He remarks conversationally. His emotions flick like they are controlled by a remote. "Did you see what I did?" He gestures wide, spinning to view the entirety of the carnage that surrounds them. "Ever heard of King Leopold II? Belgian, just like you." He smiles, and it is almost surprising that his teeth are not serrated, sharp. His entire posture is carnal, but it hums beneath the lazy tap of his footsteps. "He cut off people's hands. Well actually, he didn't, not personally anyway. He got other people to do it." He wanders in among the faces, the legs, the arms, and the rough, serrated edge of wrists that are now stumps, seeping blood. "Just like me. Do you like them?" He looks up at this, straight at Sebastian. His smirk is wild.

The man with the dark eyebrows betrays nothing but a twitch in the muscles against his jaw, but Moriarty can reads him, and with a flick of his eyes he can see. "Keep up with you history, do you then? I've heard its a touchy subject."

"This is ridiculous, I was promised the money, we had a deal."

Moriarty stills, locking eyes. His slouch, his swirling, lilting demeanor is now gone and he stands straight and harsh.

"We did. But the thing about rules is, they're meant to be broken. I don't like killing clients, I've found that it is rather bad for business. So I think that you'll have to keep breathing for a while, only if you want to though, no pressure. Shame, really." Moriarty's eyes are drawn to the slight smirk that twists at the edge of Sebastian's lips. "If you ever find the time, put a bullet in his brain." He remarks to him conversationally.

Moriarty takes less than a second to adjust to the fact that the Belgian is now on the floor with a bullet in his brain.

He tugs at his hoodie strings, twirling them around his fingers. "Didn't think you'd take things so literally. Lot of time on your hands?"

The voice that answers the echo of the high ceiling is rough, "Far too much. Especially now that I seem to be out of employment."

Moriarty makes a noise of agreement, blatantly skimming his eyes over the rolling bulge of Sebastian's forearms, and the broad stretch of his shoulders. "I happen to need a sniper."

* * *

**Oh gosh I'm so sorry. If there is anyone who takes offense to the Belgian Congo reference, I am very, very sorry. I was debating on whether or not to put it in, but I feel like it is something that Moriarty would do. **

**If there is any ficlet suggestion you have, don't forget to PM me or incorporate it into a review. I will do my best to add it in, but I sort of have a story line, so I'll work around that.**


	3. I love you

**The first time they say, "I love you."**

**Felt like I needed to write some romance stuff. Though I'm not sure that this can qualify as 'romance'. Bye.**

* * *

Sebastian is pressed up against a wall in a dark, dank alleyway. In the corner, there is a pile of tattered rags covering an indiscernible shape. A body, most likely. Frozen from the cold.

The rough scrape of stubble is reddening both of their jaws slightly, growing more harsh with every nip of teeth against lips. Jim's manicured nails dig into the skin of his neck, sharp like the nick of a razor.

Sebastian still can't pinpoint the moment when Jim's emotions swing, all he knows is that the cold slices quick and sweeping across his lips as the man in front of him pulls away with a growl that contorts high into a screech, turning away, shoulders twisting and curling in on themselves.

Sebastian leans back for support, against the wall, callused fingers sliding in the grit and dirt, breathing deep and harsh. He knows better than to ask what is going on, Jim's entire posture is smoking with barely contained, spiking anger. Sebastian Moran is not a complete idiot, nor does he have a death wish.

But when they stand, seeping tension, his tongue darts out into the frigid air, and flicks across his lips leaving the slick salt of copper in his mouth.

And he knows its stupid. He can feel the coil in the air, feel it ready to snap at any moment. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He repeats it like a mantra in his mind as he reaches to grasp one coiled shoulder. "Jim-"

The man whirls around like a rabid animal, almost spitting, eyes wild, and with the force of his spin, slaps Sebastian hard across the face. It takes all of Sebastian's megre willpower to stop himself from strangling his boss to death. The fight or flight courses through his veins as he blinks the sting from his skin.

And then those veins are spilling smooth, wet blood. Reflecting almost black in the mellow glow of the streetlight. The knife in Moriarty's hand glints in response, and he seems to deflate a little, watching Sebastian's chest heave as the gash across it, visible through his shirt, pulses out dark, red liquid with every beat of his heart.

Moriarty's feral contortions have disappeared completely now. Instead he brings a pale hand to brush against the rapidly staining shirt almost reverently. He paints a trail with it just under the index finger of his own right hand and nicks a slice in the pad of his finger. They both watch, one in awe and one in a burning mixture of confusion, pain, and baited breath, as the smooth drip of Jim's blood joins the smear of Sebastians. They catch the light as Jim rotates his palm in the air, watching as it turns from smooth liquid to solid jewel.

Jim's wonder-filled eyes catch his, and the reverence melds with wide-eyed confusion. "How do you do this to me, Sebby?" He whispers it into the air and it carries past the harsh yell of car horns, and the rumble of traffic, and the screaming murmur of London's nightlife. Because the intense stare of Jim's dark eyes has met Sebastian's wild grey ones, and the electricity of their connection is trapped in the air.

"I don't know," he gasps. They are frozen together, eyes locked.

And they won't say it for real. Won't ever say it. Neither of them can.


End file.
